


The Details of Devotion

by EnduringParadox



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Brother Ciaran and the Mute friendship, Dad!Ciaran, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Getting Together, Jealousy, M/M, Mentor!Ciaran, Pre-Canon, References to Depression, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Slice of Life, Some Humor, The Mute cherishes all the monks but he loves Diarmuid so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28349331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: Sometimes it became too much. The Mute’s new life overwhelmed him.It was meant to be his penance. He was meant to endure. To suffer.But he enjoyed it, God damn him.----The Mute throughout his years at the monastery, from his arrival to his and Diarmuid's very first kiss.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 19
Kudos: 37
Collections: Diarmute Secret Santa 2020





	The Details of Devotion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollow_dweller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollow_dweller/gifts).



> Merry Christmas and happy Diarmute Secret Santa 2020!
> 
> A fic for the lovely hollow_dweller, who listed two prompts that I mashed together: Ciaran and the Mute friendship and Diarmute pre-canon get-together. I hope you enjoy it!

Someone carefully dabbed a damp cloth at his lips.

Fresh, cool water with just a hint of linen—nothing had ever tasted as sweet.

So, he was still alive. The storm had half-drowned him, had tossed him around in the boat like a ragdoll until he was spitting seawater and choking on spit and desperation. When he’d set off into self-imposed exile he’d made the decision to gladly welcome death when it came, but once faced with its arrival he could not help but confront it as a soldier. To fall fighting with everything he had.

And yet he hadn’t succumbed. Dehydrated, starving, with nothing but his regrets and sins to keep him company, staring at a sky split by lightning—like a shattered piece of glass—at once pleading for God to end his misery and daring the Almighty to claim him.

Now here he was, tired and sore and confused on a straw mattress in a room lit by flickering candlelight, unworthy of Heaven’s absolution but, apparently, not yet ready for the torments of Hell.

A hand held the damp cloth, and attached to the hand there was an arm, and to the arm an entire person. With every wheezing breath and every slow blink his caretaker was revealed to him. A monk, by his robes and tonsure. Graying hair, even grayer beard, faced lined by a hard life, and dark eyes with an unbearably gentle, concerned gaze. As if he were somebody worth the worry and trouble of keeping alive with their scant resources.

The monk noticed his now-focused gaze and smiled. In a surprisingly soft voice he said, “Beo agus go maith. Ar fheabhas.”

Which was just completely incomprehensible. Perhaps he’d hit his head harder than he thought? He recalled a particularly rough wave sending him hurtling backwards into the boat. The sound of his skull cracking against the wood. The searing pain.

His caretaker saw the confusion on his face. “An bhfuil Gaeilge agat?” he asked. “Níl? Français? Me comprenez-vous?"

Ah, French. He was in Hell after all. His cracked lips parted into something that might’ve been called a smile.

“I see.” The monk raised an eyebrow. “Well, we’ve found a language in common, at least. You gave our novice quite the scare, my friend. He thought he found a corpse in the boat.”

That would have been better, surely. A small fishing vessel for these monks and a body to bury into the damp, dark earth, to feed it with his flesh and blood and make it a little more rich, a little more ready for the next planting season.

“I am Brother Ciarán. You’re at Kilmannán monastery. It’s not often we get visitors.”

He gave no response. Indeed, he had not made a single sound since waking.

“Can you speak?” Brother Ciarán asked.

He nodded and said nothing at all.

Brother Ciarán asked, gently, “ _Will_ you speak?”

He didn’t want to. He saw no need to. What worth were his words, a man such as himself? He shook his head. No, he would not.

They sat in silence. The monk merely watched him. Nothing moved but the candle’s flame and their shadows flickering against the wall.

“Are you well, my friend?” The man’s tone was still light but he knew—he was a monk, a man of God. No doubt he could see it—the distress roiling inside him, the sin on his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut. Hot tears ran down his cheeks as he shook his head.

No. He was not well. No man who was well and good would have lived the life that he had. Done what he had done. When he tried to sleep all he heard were arrows rushing past his ears, the creak of the ships, the breaking of glass, the frightened cries and moans of the dying. All he saw were flames and death and destruction. The lines of citizens kneeling along the street, making a cross with their fingers in a desperate attempt to remind the Crusaders that they were Christians as well.

In the end that had not mattered at all. The entire city was ransacked, its people defiled and murdered, its places of worship desecrated and looted. No one and no place was spared, not the Christians, not the Jewish, not the Muslims. The entire time, it had only been about men’s greed and political machinations, and he’d done nothing, _nothing_ but follow them—for years he’d just _fucking_ _followed them_.

When he’d taken the cross he’d made an oath to _God_ —

His body shook as a broken sob escaped his throat.

He was not well. He was not well at all.

Brother Ciarán stood and laid a gentle, weathered hand on his leg.

“I was on crusade, once,” the man said, idly, as if reminiscing about some pleasant memory from his own youth, “I saw many beautiful things. And many terrible things. The experience has not left me. The years have passed but I still remember the sights, the smells, the sounds. It was an entirely different life I lived before I came here. When the memories become too much do you know what I do?” The monk looked at him. “I pray. What better place to do so than a monastery, hm?”

He wiped his eyes with his palms, caught the tears in his hands, let them run through his fingers as he mused on Brother Ciarán’s words.

A place for prayer. A place for penance.

Perhaps that was what he needed.

* * *

They called him the Mute, and that was fine. He had not been baptized again by that storm. He had not entered a state of grace or purity. He was not forgiven of his sins. But God had sent the thunder and lightning, had riled the seas, and guided him to the monastery and to the work to be done there.

For penance.

And so he became a lay brother under Brother Ciarán’s guidance. A silent, dedicated laborer. As far as anyone in the monastery was concerned the Mute’s life began when the novice—Ciarán’s charge, Diarmuid—had found him washed up on the shore like so much detritus and beat his chest in a panic until he’d spit the seawater from his lungs and _breathed_.

His lexicon of Irish grew larger each day. It was Ciarán who taught him in an odd, roundabout manner. For the most part he translated from French, the Mute’s native tongue, but occasionally the older man had to use Latin, which the Mute knew at a base, technical level compared to the monk’s skill with the language. A great deal of pointing. A great deal of silence.

Speaking in French and lapsing into Latin all to teach Irish to a man who did not talk. The both of them realized the humor in the situation. “Ah, dear me,” Ciarán said, chuckling after one of their lessons, “We’ll get there soon enough. Don’t worry, my friend.”

My friend. _Mo cara_. He knew that phrase well. That was how Ciarán referred to him.

As did Diarmuid.

From what the Mute understood Diarmuid had been raised at the monastery. A foundling, left swaddled on the altar one night. “He had such a healthy appetite,” Ciarán once mentioned. The young man was one of his favorite topics of conversation. His eyes sparkled with paternal affection when he spoke of his charge. “I used to make him a mixture of bread and milk and honey. How he ate! And when he grew a bit bigger he liked to try and feed himself—smeared more over his face and robes than he actually managed to eat, I think, but he enjoyed the activity.”

Diarmuid had been reserved at first. Not quite shy, just wary—of both the stranger in the monastery’s midst and of running afoul of the Abbot or Ciarán for bothering the Mute while he was recovering. But still curious. Always curious.

In the first few weeks during the Mute’s recovery he’d only been a half-remembered dream. The ghost of a startled cry and gentle fingers against his lips, feeling for his breath. Then he knew the young man by his attempted surreptitious glances into the hut—the _clochán_ —where the Mute was recovering. His unruly, curly brown hair, his inquisitive, dark brown eyes. And when the Mute was finally able to walk on his own and see the place where God had steered him to he saw Diarmuid’s wide, bright smile.

While the other monks spoke _at_ the Mute, directed him to complete this or that task in short, sometimes very loud, Irish phrases Diaramuid always spoke _to_ him and joined him in all his duties. If the Mute was to forage for seaweed— _dulse_ , it was called _dulse_ —then Diarmuid would accompany him to the beach happily chatter as if the Mute could understand him completely. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t. But the novice’s voice was always warm and pleasant, his company always agreeable.

All the monks in the monastery were his to protect, like a sheepdog's flock, but Ciarán and Diarmuid were special. His spiritual guide and the novice who still needed minding.

_Mo cara._

They were men of God. If they saw him as their friend then it had to be so.

* * *

Sometimes it became too much. The Mute’s new life overwhelmed him.

It was meant to be his penance. He was meant to endure. To _suffer_.

But he enjoyed it, God damn him. He’d traded his armor and his heraldry for wool clothes, given up spiced, roasted meats and rich, thick sauces for pottage and vegetable soup with _dulse_ and so much dried fish.

He was still warm, his appetite still sated. The work wasn’t mindless toil; everything he did was a benefit to the monastery. Repairing the _clocháns_ , tending to the livestock, plowing the field, tanning the hides. There was always something that needed to be done but every task he completed earned him the monks’ gratitude and praise.

And the Mute never lacked for company. Diarmuid was a near constant companion, always eager to share in his daily chores if it meant that they could have their strange conversations: a chattering novice and a silent but attentive lay brother. But even when the young man was called away to some different assignment for the day the other monks were comfortable enough to at least work and talk around him.

It was a hard life, a life of introspection, but as the Mute looked inward he found that he preferred this to the pomp and circumstance of court life and castles and jousts and feasts. Here the Mute had food, he had shelter, he had work, responsibilities—to care for the monks as they cared for him—and he had _friendship_ and—

He still had trouble sleeping, still startled awake at the phantom scent of smoke and blood, of screams and curses in Greek. But sometimes the Crusade seemed only a distant memory, a half-remembered nightmare. He’d crawl into bed after another day’s labor, exhausted, eyes heavy, thinking of only the next day’s tasks. Helping Ciarán pick and dry herbs from the garden. Trimming the sheep’s hooves. Milking the cows. Collecting hazelnuts with Diarmuid.

He looked forward to it. That was the problem.

This was not supposed to be good. He was not supposed to be _happy_. It was an affront to the dead that he was alive and well when their own lives had been cut short by his own actions.

During these meditations of doubt and self-loathing when he could not bring himself to leave his bed for days, ruminating on his every fault and misdeed, Ciarán would walk the long path from the monastery proper and visit him. He always brought powdered herbs and small vials of some elixir on the chance that the Mute had been brought low by a physical illness, but the monk understood that some days the Mute was devastated by remembrance and rumination.

“I am sorry to see you’re not feeling well,” Ciarán said, pressing the palm of his hand to the Mute’s forehead. “No fever that I can tell. Perhaps we’ve merely asked too much of you as of late. If you need to rest for a few more days then that is quite all right. You do so much good work for us. It is a blessing to have you here, my friend.” Then, as he always did, in that gentle, idle way, “There is no shame in feeling contentment in this life, you know. It is difficult, yes, but nowhere is it written that we must be dour. There is satisfaction in sore muscles and tired eyes. Contentment with the men you live and work with. Joy in listening to the sound of the waves and the wind rustling the treetops. It is not a sin to be happy.”

The Mute’s body shuddered as he sobbed, tears falling into the straw mattress.

Ciarán was a healer. He always understood what it was that the Mute needed to hear.

* * *

The seasons passed but no matter how many times the trees went from bare to bud to bloom Brother Cathal seemed to think that because the Mute did not speak he was dull-witted.

And deaf.

He watched as the monk pantomimed in slow, loud, deliberate Irish. “We—must—dry—the—fish. The—FISH. Yes? FISH.”

The Mute stared at him, trying to stifle a smile, and gave his head an exaggerated, quizzical tilt.

Brother Cathal rubbed his hand over his face and mumbled, “Lord, give me patience. How to—ah, I know.” He began another awkward pantomime. Bemused, the Mute observed the monk as he pretended to take hold of a fishing rod, toss the line into the sea, to struggle with a fish on the line, and to finally catch it. He held his empty hands aloft to the Mute with a smile, and then acted out the process of layering fish and salt in one of their barrels.

Of course, the Mute had no idea what he was doing. He was unable to speak and that had obviously affected the rest of his senses. The monk had to do better in order for the monastery’s lay brother to parse the meaning of this elaborate theatre. He stared at Brother Cathal with his best dumbfounded expression.

The monk groaned. “Where’s Diarmuid when you need him?”

“He’s collecting firewood,” Brother Rua said, not even looking up from shelling peas, “But by all means, continue making a fool of yourself.”

“He knows French, doesn’t he? What’s the French word for fish?”

Brother Rua looked up from his work, affronted. “Why would I know French?”

“It’s, ah, Brother Ciarán told me once. Pah— _peh-sawn_.” He looked at the Mute, pleased. “The FISH. _PEH-SAWN_.” He started his fishing act from the beginning.

 _Poisson_. It was an attempt, the Mute had to give him that. He was about to simply take the barrel and salt the fish when Diarmuid walked up the path with an armful of firewood and a frown on his face. “Cathal, are you ill? Why are you making that strange noise?”

The Mute burst out laughing. It was rough, unused, and loud—a series of sharp, hoarse barks. The look of shock on the monks’ faces only made him laugh harder. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, and laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

Diarmuid made a small noise of disbelief. The young man rushed toward him, dropping the firewood to the ground with a clatter. He stared at the Mute with his big, brown eyes, perhaps checking to see if his friend had gone mad. But then a soft giggle escaped his lips, and then another, and another, and then the two of them were laughing so hard their faces were red and tears of mirth were rolling down their cheeks.

“What? What did I say?” Brother Cathal asked, bewildered.

Brother Rua chucked a pea pod at his head. “Come, fool, now sing me a song. Be quick about it!”

The Mute turned at the other monk’s insulted squawk, ready to smile and shrug in apology, but he was stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of Diarmuid, wiping his face with a hand and giggling to himself, his face flushed, his smile as lovely and stunning as a sunrise.

“I’ve never heard you laugh like that before, my friend,” the novice said.

 _Mo cara_. Diarmuid had called him that many times before. It always lifted the Mute’s spirits. But now as he stared at the upturned curve of Diarmuid’s lips he found that the term made his heart pound, made his face heat as he blushed all the way to the tips of his ears.

A mute, struck dumb twice over by beauty.

He had to laugh at the utter ridiculousness of that as well.

* * *

It was as if a dam had burst. At first only a trickle of distracted thoughts flowed through his head in his free hours. The Mute would spy a pretty stone or a colorful feather and think, yes, Diarmuid would like that. Monks were not meant to own anything but Diarmuid had not taken his vows yet. He was still a novice, and the Mute could present him with small gifts. Tokens of his esteem and admiration for a pious, thoughtful, curious young man whose presence made the day go by fast and whose absence made the night long and lonely.

Perhaps it was because he’d indulged so, grown greedy on the bright smiles and heartfelt thanks that his attentions could elicit, that his thoughts had turned to a flood of desire.

He noticed more about his companion every day. The bright beauty of his smile had been noted and committed to memory, of course. But also his strength—he wasn’t broad and scarred as the Mute was, but all smooth, lean muscle. How his features had grown sharper during the past summer. How his eyes were still so large and so dark, how warm his gaze was.

And even worse, now the Mute _wondered_. Were Diarmuid’s lips as soft as they looked? How would they feel against his? What did the crook of his neck taste like? His chest? His belly? Lower? Numerous adjectives flitted through his mind. Diarmuid seemed to him to be a feast—honey-sweet, the salt taste of sweat, something sharp and spiced. But no matter where his imagination took him the Mute knew without a doubt that he would taste _divine_.

Ciarán had told him it was not a sin to be happy but surely it was a sin to crave Diarmuid’s company, to ache for his voice, to yearn for his touch. A novice meant for God, a young man raised in the monastery who knew nothing beyond the forest surrounding it, who was not his friend’s son but might as well have been. How could he betray the monk’s trust as he had? Sinning in his heart, pining for the man who Ciarán had cared for his entire life and raised according to Saint Benedict’s rules?

But Diarmuid was his friend as well—his dearest, most cherished friend, the one who had found him half-dead on the beach and thought him worth saving, who had avoided Ciarán’s stern orders to let the Mute rest in order to peer into the _clochán_ and check on him, who had taken his vow of silence in stride and spoke enough for the both of them.

The Mute loved him.

And he would continue to do so in secret so as not to disrupt the peace of the monastery or betray Ciarán’s trust or frighten Diarmuid with his vulgar and unworthy desires and a heart fit to burst with love.

Perhaps this was his true penance. To dog his beloved’s steps like a hulking, silent shadow, day after day. To be so close to him and yet for Diarmuid to never know the depths of his feelings.

Finally. Here was his punishment. Here was his suffering.

* * *

The monks were not completely self-sufficient. There were foodstuffs they could not grow or forage for in the wild and material they could not make themselves. Luckily there was a merchant who, in return for a bit of their honey, spun wool, hard cheese, and what the Mute suspected was some spiritual absolution, made the trip to the monastery once or twice a year to provide them with certain necessities.

Parchment, for one. The livestock was too precious as a source for milk and cloth to slaughter for vellum but the annals still needed to be kept. Then there were the nearly overflowing sacks of dried beans and oats in case the winter was harsher than expected. And news of the outside world traded after prayers, confession, and a few generous mugs of ale.

This late autumn the merchant also brought his son, Caoimhín, who looked to be about Diarmuid’s age. Taller, broader, straw blond hair and an attempt at a beard. If the Mute were feeling charitable he might have described the man as somewhat comely. But by his expression it was obvious that he lacked Diarmuid’s introspection, his thoughtfulness, his cleverness. Not even close to a fitting conversation partner.

Nevertheless, Diarmuid was intrigued by Caoimhín and vice versa. Diarmuid had never before met someone his age, and the merchant’s son probably had never seen such a young novice. After a few minutes of warily eyeing one another, Caoimhín beside his father and Diarmuid beside Ciarán, they got to talking. Once it was established that Caoimhín often accompanied his father when he traveled for business Diarmuid’s reserve lost out to his curiosity. The Mute listened to their conversation as he hauled supplies off the merchant’s cart.

“Have you been to many places?” Diarmuid eagerly asked.

Chest puffing up like a rooster, Caoimhín answered, “All around Ireland, and to Wales and England. In the next year we’ll be making the trip to Normandy.”

Ah, yes. Practically a world traveler. The Mute stifled a scoff but Diarmuid was fascinated. “That’s amazing. Are they very different—all the places you’ve been?”

“You’ve never left the monastery, is that right?” Diarmuid nodded. “Then I think it’ll be hard to describe. Some places, there’s no more people than there are here. Just a family or two. But then you have the cities, where everyone’s living all next to each other and if you travel through you might not see the same face twice. Diarmuid, you’d be shocked at all the people in the world.”

Who did this man think he was, to address Diarmuid so informally? So casually? As if they’d grown up together. Doling out his limited experiences as if he were some great philosopher. Marcus Aurelius. Augustine of Hippo. Caoimhín the merchant’s son, expert in all things east of Kilmannán.

The Mute hauled a sack of dried fruit over his shoulder and stomped up the path toward the kitchen. He heard Caoimhín whistle. “That’s a big man, there.”

“Our lay brother,” Diarmuid murmured. “My dear friend.”

Some of the tension in his shoulders relaxed at that. Yes, let them talk. Diarmuid loved to hear stories, but he wouldn’t be so easily seduced by a _boy_ whose _balls_ had probably dropped just a season before. He could regale Diarmuid with whatever nonsense he wanted. It was the Mute who understood Diarmuid. Who could have conversations with him entirely without words. Who knew how to make him smile and laugh and—

“You know,” the merchant’s son was saying to Diarmuid as the Mute made his way back to the cart, “You’re a very interesting person.”

Sounding very flustered Diarmuid asked, “Really? Do you think so?”

He swallowed a veritable snarl and decided that he’d had done quite enough here for one day. There were other places the Mute could make himself useful. Mending the fences. Sweeping the church floor. Beating his head against a tree trunk a few times.

Jealousy. The Mute felt like a youth once more, ready to throw his rival down into the mud. It’d been one thing to decide to pine for Diarmuid, to enjoy his friendship as they worked side-by-side each day, but to listen to a man tempt him with tales of the outside world—

Diarmuid had been raised at the monastery. It was assumed—and hoped for by Ciarán—that the young man would complete his novitiate and become a monk. In his fantastical, self-deprecating imaginings of a lifetime of passionate yearning the Mute had never once considered the scenario where Diarmuid _left_.

But it was a strong possibility. He was young and curious and still chafed under some of the monastic regulations. Beyond the hills and beyond the forests and beyond the ocean waves there was a whole entire world filled with strange new lands and strange new people all waiting to become familiar.

Enticement in the form of young merchants’ sons with peach fuzz and winning smiles and nothing but pleasant tales of colorful cities and crowded trade routes.

What stories would the Mute have for Diarmuid if he hadn’t committed himself to silence? Starving men tearing the grass from the countryside and stripping rotting flesh from dead horses for a meal. Men who had taken the cross gambling and drinking and carousing in the camps. A city so grand and beautiful that one might’ve thought it housed the angels of Heaven. That it was the home of all types of people of every color and language and religion—for a time, until he and the other Crusaders laid waste to it. Nothing but disappointment and avarice, shame and death.

He stewed in dark, despairing memories and self-pitying visions of a future without Diarmuid.

The two were still deep in conversation as he made his way back to the path.

The merchant, having finished speaking with the Abbot and Ciarán clapped his son on the back. “Caoimhín, lad. We’re just about finished here. No more gabbing with the little novice, he has his own chores to attend to.”

Both young men looked sheepish at having been caught and chided for shirking their duties for a few hours of friendly discussion. They said their goodbyes with a renewed shyness.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Diarmuid said, softly but earnestly, taking Caoimhín’s hands in his.

“Likewise. Goodbye, Diarmuid.”

Just that couple of hours seemed to have given Diarmuid a burst of energy. He prattled with renewed vigor, happily chopping vegetables to add to the night’s stew. The Mute heard Caoimhín’s tales twice over as Diarmuid relayed his time with the merchant’s son.

“—and he saw a _parrot_ , which he said can speak just like a person. It said hello to him! Have you ever seen one? Are they really that colorful?”

The Mute stoked the fire with more force than necessary. Glowing embers skittered along the ground. He gave a curt nod. Yes, he had. And yes, they were. Cheerful, chattering little creatures with bright, eye-catching plumage.

“Did they ever talk to you?” Diarmuid asked.

He’d once known a man whose wife collected all sorts of pets—plump lap dogs and large, fluffy cats, a squirrel with its own leash and collar, an entire menagerie of birds. A few times he’d had dinner at their home, played cards, fed the squirrel a handful of hazelnuts and watched in wonder as the birds flitted about their cages. The parrots—they’d spoken in the same tones as the mistress of the house.

 _Clever little beasts_ , she’d cooed, and they had responded, with a rustle of their wings and inquisitive stares in strange, high exclamations, _Clever little beasts!_

That’d been a lifetime ago. Even before—

“My friend? Are you all right?”

The grasping tendrils of memory dissipated. With a shake of his head the Mute focused his attention back on the crackling fire and Diarmuid’s voice.

The novice gave him a gentle smile. “You were very deep in thought.”

A flush crept up the Mute’s face. Caught nostalgic and melancholy. Not very fine company tonight. He stared at the ground and shrugged. The fire crackled. For lack of anything better to do he threw another piece of wood onto it and watched flecks of light sweep into the air.

Diarmuid said nothing further. He placed a generous pat of butter into the cooking pot, studied it for a few moments, and then added a few handfuls of roughly chopped onions. They sizzled as they cooked. Expression unreadable, Diarmuid proceeded to add a pile of chopped carrots and a bit of wild garlic. When enough time had passed he poured in a pitcher of fresh water.

The exact recipe existed in the novice’s mind, the result of years of watching the monks cook before he was even allowed to offer assistance and tailored to his own tastes. A bit more onion and garlic, carrots added later so they didn’t become quite so soft, a little less water and a bit more barley than the other monks used.

He’d mentioned all this, once, and as with everything Diarmuid told him the Mute had taken the words like a gift and buried it deep within his heart. All of Diarmuid’s memories, all of his preferences—the things that made him smile, the things that made him frown.

Now, however, the young man’s eyes did not lift from his task. He seemed to be carefully avoiding the Mute’s gaze, pointedly concentrating on the boiling pot of stew. Diarmuid added a heaping of split peas and three handfuls of barley and then after a few slow, careful stirs there was nothing to do but let the concoction sit.

Finally, his eyes met the Mute’s.

In a small, quiet voice Diarmuid asked, “Do you think me very dull?” When the Mute stared at him, startled and confused by the question, the novice added, “Caoimhín knew such interesting things. I’ve never known anything but the monastery. There is so much I don’t know. It must be very irritating to have to listen to me all the time.”

Nothing could be further from the truth. He shook his head as emphatically as he could. The wind rushed past his ears. It was a joy to listen to listen to Diarmuid’s thoughts, to be included in his ponderings and musings. It was more than the Mute deserved.

“You can tell me the truth, you know. I won’t mind,” said Diarmuid. His voice wavered with resignation.

The Mute stood up. Diarmuid started, clasping the spoon to his chest, his eyes wide. It was completely absurd, preposterous—he’d never tire of the young man’s company. Diarmuid was his beloved, his most esteemed, precious friend, and the Mute cherished every moment with him.

He clasped Diarmuid’s shoulder with a massive hand and stood there stupidly for a long moment and hoped his feelings were conveyed. They stared at one another, a lay brother and a novice.

Diarmuid’s face glowed in the firelight. His smile was a delicate, fragile thing. “You’re absolutely certain? The last thing I’d ever want to do is to—be unpleasant company, to you.”

The Mute gave another forceful nod. Diarmuid’s smile widened. He placed his own small hand on top of the Mute’s and squeezed.

Perhaps—perhaps he could—the Mute swallowed. Would it be so terribly improper to run his hand along Diarmuid’s shoulder to cup his cheek? To feel the weight of him as he leaned into his palm? To stroke his lip with his thumb—just to put his mind to rest, to see if it was as soft as he imagined? Could he embrace him? Wrap his arms around him, cover him like a shield? Bury his nose in his curls? Let him feel his heart racing in his chest, thrumming a song just for him?

But the moment passed. He’d waited too long. Diarmuid bit his lip and looked away. The novice gently shrugged off his hand and went back to his task.

He gave its contents one more stir, and brought out a spoonful of steaming barley and vegetable stew. Diarmuid blew on it gently, took a sip, and then proffered it to him.

“Here, give it a try. Is it ready?”

The Mute took the spoon and slowly, deliberately, turned it so that the place where Diarmuid’s lips had touched was at his own and closed his eyes.

The taste—

It was a plain recipe fit for the inhabitants of a monastery—Ciarán’s herbs and spices were used with care and not to be wasted on a simple night’s stew. It was a very familiar taste as well. All their meals were quite similar. The same ingredients, the same flavors and texture and consistency, day in and day out. But comforting, and warm, and filling. The butter with the natural sweetness of the onion. The slight crunch of the carrots. This was the result of their hard work, of many hands tending their plots, tilling and turning the soil, tending to the sprouts, protecting them from weather and beast until harvest.

The young man was obviously waiting for an answer. The Mute set the spoon over the pot and, smiling, rubbed his stomach with his hand in an exaggerated manner.

The gesture had the desired effect. Diarmuid laughed with delight. “Really? I think you may just be placating me.”

The Mute shook his head. Diarmuid had made it. Diarmuid had offered it to him. It tasted of his efforts and his care and his tongue and it was _delicious._ Everything Diarmuid gave him—his company, his smile, his musings, his laughter, his dreams, his innermost thoughts—nourished him in every way.

He always craved more.

A tentative, trembling hand sought Diarmuid’s and held it. Normally he thought himself too large, too rough, too scarred by blade and life to even dare to brush the hem of the novice’s robes. But just this once—the Mute wanted to indulge himself. To savor.

“ _Oh_.” Diarmuid’s pleased expression shifted into something softer—gentle, almost shy—and yet somehow brighter and more beautiful than anything the Mute had seen, like spotting the first green buds of spring after a long, cold, dark winter. Diarmuid interlaced their fingers and hummed.

By God, he could live off of all the affection in those big, dark brown eyes.

A call startled them out of their shared reverie. “Diarmuid, how’s that stew coming along?”

It was Ciarán, finally finished with taking inventory of their supplies and ready for supper.

They scrambled away from each other. Blushing furiously, Diarmuid said, “Just about finished. We were just waiting for everyone.”

The old monk’s eyes went from Diarmuid’s freckled, pink face to the Mute’s. Ciarán raised an eyebrow. There was something knowing in that look. The Mute held his gaze for as long as he could and then gained an intense interest in the ground. He scuffed at the dirt like a sheepish, reprimanded child.

Ciarán peered into the pot and sniffed. “It smells quite delectable, Diarmuid.” The monk gave the stew a leisurely stir and carefully sipped at it. “Ah, and tastes just as good. Well done.”

“I’ve made it so many times. I ought to be able to get it right by now.” Diarmuid’s blush deepened. “Our friend thought it was quite tasty,” he said with that same, glowing smile.

It had been. It was. The Mute nodded his agreement.

“I see,” Ciarán said, “The official endorsement, eh?” His tone was light, teasing.

Diarmuid sniffed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I don’t mean anything by it. Our lay brother is a good man.” Ciarán was one of the tallest monks at the monastery and the Mute still had to stare down at him. He’d grown grayer in the past few years. Tired a little more easily. But still as kind as the day they’d met, when the monk had invited him into the monastery. He patted the Mute’s shoulder in a gentle, idle manner as he continued, “And you’ve always been a fine judge of character, Diarmuid. You’re a smart young man. You never make decisions lightly.”

The novice looked bemused. “I—thank you, Brother Ciarán?”

They were not discussing stew. A bead of sweat ran down the back of the Mute’s neck. He turned to beat a hasty retreat, face burning, but Diarmuid stopped him.

“W-wait, wait! You haven’t eaten. Take a bowl with you.”

As always he was powerless to Diarmuid’s requests. The Mute waited as the young man ladled stew into the bowl. Their fingers brushed together when he took it from Diarmuid’s hands.

“Good night,” Diarmuid murmured, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He did not spill a single drop of the stuff on his way back to his _clochán_. He did not immediately eat it, either. Instead the Mute sat at his table, fingers clutched around the bowl, and indulged again, and pretended that the heat it gave off was Diarmuid’s touch.

A silly thing to do, because it didn’t even come close to the warmth of his hands. But it would do until the morning.

* * *

After that their touches became more familiar, more intimate. They played a shy game of their own making. Diarmuid would grab his hand as they walked, sometimes to lead him somewhere, sometimes for no reason at all. When the young man was absorbed in some task the Mute deigned to put his hand on the back of his neck, to rub his shoulder, to touch the small of his back.

It was a welcome difference. The chores were still done. Diarmuid still chattered. But when they were alone but for the eyes of God they touched with tender affection, eager to hold one another, to ease their yearning and soak in each other’s ardor.

When would be the time to kiss? The Mute wondered about it often. Imagined the perfect moment to grasp Diarmuid’s hips and pull him in close and to press their lips together. To learn the contours of Diarmuid’s mouth, to commit any noises he made to memory.

But it was a daunting idea. A formal declaration of love and desire that even now the Mute wasn’t quite sure was reciprocated in the same way.

His older sister had married when he was quite young. He still remembered the courtship. An intricate affair involving both families. The almost-wedded couple sitting at opposite ends of the table, glancing bashfully at one another, while their parents argued over the dowry, the bride price, the wedding date, the subsequent banquet, how much of her own household she would keep.

He’d stared, curious, at the proceedings and then sat down next to his future brother-in-law and offered him one of his toys: a little boat, carved from wood.

The man had smiled. “That’s a very fine craft you have there, young sir.” The compliment had made him beam. “Could you do me a favor? Man-to-man? Could you tell your sister that she is very lovely, and I will be glad to get to know her?”

Of course he could. He’d nodded, solemnly, and scampered off to tell his sister. They’d had an entire conversation through him and he’d gotten some pieces of dried, honeyed figs out of it.

Another life. A good memory.

But very different, to relay someone else’s affections than for someone to strip themselves bare for their beloved.

One morning he woke to find that the snow had fallen in thick, white layers of winter and that Ciarán had arrived at his _clochán_.

“Good morning, my friend. I’m happy to see that you’re well. I’ve come to help you clear some of this snow from your path,” the monk said, sitting down at the Mute’s table, “But first, let’s talk.” He stared pointedly at the Mute.

The Mute sat down across from him. It was cold, but he had begun to sweat.

They were more careful, now, he and Diarmuid. Ever since that last odd conversation over the stew.

“It’s a blessing to have you here,” Ciarán said, not for the first time. “I am so grateful for all the you do for us. But you and Diarmuid. I fear that—“ He paused, brow furrowed, collecting his thoughts.

The Mute’s heart sank. Obviously they hadn’t been discreet enough. And Ciarán couldn’t very well stand by and watch as the monastery’s novice—his _student_ —was swayed from a life of God, a life of good works, to be with a man who had wrought nothing but destruction. At Zara, at Constantinople, here, at the monastery that had freely taken him in, sheltered him, cared for him, shown him kindness—and how had he repaid them? By _seducing_ their novice—

Ciarán said, “I fear that what I thought was a statement of acknowledgement was taken as a warning. Please do not—do not think that I—“ He stopped again. “You are both so very dear to this monastery and to my heart. If, in the future, when Diarmuid’s novitiate is completed and he makes a decision as to whether or not to stay here—do not think that we would be angry if he chose a different path. Saddened, perhaps, but,” here Ciarán gave him a small smile, “It tends to happen. Children setting up their own household.”

The Mute stared at him in shock. He’d been expecting a reprimand at the least, to be forced from the monastery at the worst. Not acceptance.

Not a _blessing_.

“Now, let’s get to clearing that snow. We can’t have you fighting the elements to get to the monastery."

With a dazed nod the Mute stood and—he huffed a laugh—helped his friend clear the snow outside his _clochán_.

It was a clear, cold day but the work went fast with Ciarán’s good company. They were done in time for the next prayers.

Ciarán left him with an embrace that the Mute readily returned. “You two are good for each other,” he said, “But not nearly as secretive as you think.” And then he laughed at the Mute’s shocked, blushing face and departed chortling as he dodged a hastily made snowball.

* * *

Ultimately, his desire for Diarmuid outweighed his fear of rejection.

It was near the end of winter. The frost was melting, the green returning to the landscape, and Diarmuid, having been bundled up and stuck inside the monastery grounds for the season, whooped with joy and cast aside his hood to feel the sunlight on his face.

His happiness was infectious, his beauty unparalleled, and the Mute wanted to hold him in his arms so that he could behold nothing but Diarmuid’s exhilaration.

“Finally,” Diarmuid said, and the Mute wasn’t certain if he meant the coming bloom or the way that they held onto each other. Diarmuid’s nails dug into the back of his coat, while the Mute pressed him to his chest as if trying to shelter him inside his heart. When Diarmuid looked up, his eyes dark and shining and _happy_ , the Mute knew he had no choice.

One hand went to Diarmuid’s waist. The other lifted his chin just a little bit more, so that the Mute could lean down and press a gentle kiss to his slightly parted lips.

It was not a kiss that would make it into a song. It was somehow both impulsive and hesitant on his part and enthusiastic but inexperienced on Diarmuid’s. Clumsy, almost chaste, but—

It was with Diarmuid, and so it was perfect.

When he moved his head back, just a little, just to get more comfortable, Diarmuid gave a tiny, irritated growl and surged forward for another, fiercer, longer kiss.

Perhaps, the Mute thought, idly, as Diarmuid moaned in satisfaction against his lips, he shouldn’t have been so worried about being rebuffed.

When they both pulled away Diarmuid was shivering with excitement in his arms, his heart beating rabbit-fast, his smile outshining the sun. “I love you,” Diarmuid said. “I’m so glad that you’re here with me.”

And the Mute let out a shaky laugh and kissed him again, because he was, too.

Glad to have washed up on the monastery’s shores. Glad that Diarmuid found him. Glad that Ciarán had opened the door to him, had offered him food and shelter and friendship.

And so, so glad for Diarmuid. For his kindness and his wit and his beauty and that, for all the Mute had done, for all his sins and all his faults, that Diarmuid loved him back.

Even if he could speak he wasn’t sure he had the ability to convey this to him. To express the extent of his love, the wide expanse of it, as broad and deep as the ocean.

So instead the Mute chose to kiss Diarmuid again, and again, and again, smiling at the sound of his joyous laughter.

He was glad.

**Author's Note:**

> Untranslated text:
> 
> Beo agus go maith. Ar fheabhas. - Alive and well. Excellent.
> 
> An bhfuil Gaeilge agat? - Do you speak Irish? 
> 
> Níl? Français? Me comprenez-vous? - No? French? Do you understand me?


End file.
